Category Archives: Random Rants

I had to work this morning, so I woke up bright and early then hopped on my longboard towards the subway. I was in the bike lane where I was supposed to be when suddenly a black SUV veered into my lane, coming within a foot of hitting me. Luckily i have cat-like reflexes and I jumped off my board in time. I walked over to his hood and blocked his path, raised my middle finger, and yelled at him for almost hitting me. I noticed his Lyft tag and saw his passenger waiting to get picked up on the curb. I looked at him and asked if he was sure he wanted to get in a car with a driver that clearly can’t drive. The Lyft driver rolled down his window and said “I didn’t see you.”

I didn’t see you. No fucking shit. That’s why he almost hit me. That’s not really a valid excuse. It’s San Francisco. There are bikers, skaters, joggers, and crackheads everywhere. If he drives in the city for a living, he needs to know that. So I took a picture of his license plate to report him to Lyft. He’s getting only getting one star and a negative review from me.

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I was at my friend’s house a few years ago and had to take a shit. I went to his bathroom and pooped and I pooped good. It was a pretty substantial dump. I admired it briefly and then flushed it down. I washed my hands, dried them off, and started to open the door when I noticed a small turd still in the toilet bowl. Normally I would just leave a little nugget like that but I respected my friend too much to do that to him. I flushed the toilet again. It somehow managed to survive another rough ride around the bowl. It didn’t want to go. I had to flush the toilet a third time. No dice. The fourth flush didn’t do anything either. On the fifth fucking flush it finally disappeared. I felt a little bad. He was a tough little fucker. I’ve encountered other flush-resistant dookie since, but nothing on that level. I still think about him every now and then, or whenever I see a Tootsie Roll. I hope he’s still out there somewhere. I wish him the best.

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I’ve been bartending a couple of days a week and it’s starting to catch up with me. Right now I’m suffering from a case of bartender hands. That’s when your hands are slightly dried out with small nicks and cuts. The cuts aren’t generally visible but you sure as hell feel them when you get lime juice or a bit of salt in them, both common hazards of the trade. Bartending isn’t just making cocktails, pouring beer, and making small talk with customers. There’s a lot of grunt work involved. You get bartender hands from washing glassware, prepping fruit, broken pieces of glass, and any combination of the above. It takes its toll after a while. It’s worth it at the end of the shift though. Count your money, not your problems.

Last Saturday was a crazy shift and I went to the bar afterwards with my fellow servers for a much needed drink. We bragged about our good tips, bitched about bad tables, complained about lazy coworkers, what we fucked up on… you know, normal server conversations. Servers bitch a lot. It’s a well known fact in the restaurant industry. We bitch when it’s busy, we bitch when it’s slow, we invent reasons to bitch. So believe me when I say that one of the guys in the group was bitching way too much. He went on and on about all the problems and ignorant people he had to deal with. It was too much. That’s when I realized something. We all needed to stop bitching. Work was tough but it was over, we survived. The nice thing about serving is that everyday is pay day. You go to work and leave with money to show for it. You need to take that cash out of your pocket and look at it. Count your money, not your problems. I know that’s not a profound quote but it’s a good philosophy to have as a server. And if you do have problems, throwing money at them will make them go away.

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Everyone has their own opinions and most people want their opinions known. This results in a lot of arguments and debates between people who don’t see eye to eye. I’ve discussed politics, religion, sports, et cetera with friends, family members, and random people at the bar. Most of the time I end up having a decent conversation with someone who has a different viewpoint than me. But occasionally I realize that I’m talking to a complete idiot who has no idea how spectacularly wrong they are.

Case in point: the other day I was talking to a Dodger fan at a baseball game and I mentioned that beach balls in the stands is a Dodger thing. He disagreed and said that beach balls in the stands is a baseball thing. I couldn’t help but laugh at his ignorance. We were sitting in the bleachers at AT&T Park on a gorgeous sunny Saturday afternoon with nary a beach ball in sight. If beach balls are a baseball thing, then where the fuck were all the beach balls? Oh, in Dodger Stadium, that’s right.

I didn’t bring up that very valid point though because there’s no point in arguing with an idiot. It’s an excercise in futility. If they don’t believe basic facts, they aren’t going to believe you. I want to be clear that he’s not an idiot for being a Dodgers fan. That’s not his fault. Your team is chosen for you before you’re born. He’s an idiot for not realizing that the traditions of Dodger Stadium don’t extend to all of baseball. He probably thinks that every stadium sells Dodger Dogs. They don’t. Just like they don’t do The Chop outside of Atlanta. Don’t argue with stupid people. You’re never going to change their mind. It’s a waste of time and energy. Ignorance is bliss and sometimes people want to be happy. Let them believe the world is flat.

Autocorrect is both a blessing and a curse. I like the fact that it makes typing on my phone faster and easier but it’s not perfect. Sometimes it changes words or phrases without you noticing and you end up looking stupid. Sometimes it changes something you typed correctly and you end up looking stupid. My friend asked me what days I’m free. I told him I always have Sundays off. Autocorrect changed Sundays to Sunday’s. I don’t like looking stupid. I had to go back to correct autocorrect and that defeats the whole point of having autocorrect. Correcting autocorrect seems counterintuitive. I shouldn’t have to do it. Life is hard enough already.

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A couple of days ago my buddy texted me asking my opinion on which SF Giants jersey he should get. We brainstormed for a while. Getting a new jersey is a big deal. Do you go current or retro? The name and number you choose to wear should have a reason behind it. I tossed out a few ideas and he ended up deciding on a retro 1993 Rod Beck #47. That’s a great fucking choice. Rod Beck was a beast of a closer but he’s kind of overlooked because there are so many great Giants players. You hardly see anybody rocking his jersey. I told my friend that he’s going to get a lot of shoulder tap compliments from Giants fans.

A shoulder tap compliment is the best kind of compliment. It’s when you’re doing something so great that a complete stranger feels the need to tap you on the shoulder and tell you how awesome you are. Most compliments are given by friends or family members because they noticed that you did something different and they feel like they have to comment on it. It seems more like an observation than an actual compliment. But you know you really got a good jersey when a random person tells you that you got a good jersey. I know you’re not supposed to talk to strangers but you can take a compliment from one.

Critically Rated at 15/17

Written, Rated, and Reviewed by Brendan H. Young

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My girlfriend has a dog. That means I have a dog. Dogs are awesome but they are a lot of responsibility. You have to feed them, give them water, take them for walks, and pick up their shit when they poop in public. And you have to do all that every single day. That dog has become a big part of my life. I realized this when I was texting my girlfriend and my phone auto filled He pooped along with the poop emoji. Every third or fourth text seems to be about if he did or didn’t poop. And sometimes there’s a follow up report if he pooped like He pooped twice! Or He pooped but it was runny. I don’t mind. I love the little bastard. But I talk about his poop way more than I should.

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A lot of public restrooms are using automatic toilets these days. Those are toilets that uses sensors to flush automatically. They are supposedly more hygienic because you don’t have to use your hands, but it’s still a public toilet. It’s going to be disgusting no matter what. I don’t like automatic toilets. I don’t trust them. Sometimes they flush too early before I throw in my used toilet paper. Sometimes they don’t flush at all and my shit is on display for the lucky next person who ventures into the stall. They let me down each time I’m forced to use one. I can flush just fine by myself. I don’t need technology to do it for me.

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I have a neighbor named Bruno. He’s an interesting guy. He’s in his seventies and lives with his brother and sister in the same house they grew up in. He plays bass in a band. He hosts a radio show. He smokes weed and has for decades. He is old school San Francisco and embodies what makes this city great.

Bruno is a great neighbor and that is a hard thing to find these days. When I moved in, he came over and introduced himself and welcomed me to the nieghborhood. We always say hello when we see each other and speak when we can. He asks how my roommates are doing, shoots the shit about sports, and updates me on his latest escapades. He talks your ear off but he always has something interesting to say. He sends holiday cards to all the people on the block and reminds them that it’s street cleaning tomorrow and they need to move their car. I’m going to Bruno if I ever need to borrow a cup of sugar.

Good neighbors are a dying breed, especially in the city. Most people are too buried in their smart phones to engage with the world around them. Bruno takes me back to a different time, when life was more real. He’s the quirky neighbor and wise mentor in the sitcom that is my life. I hope everyone has a Bruno in theirs too.

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A machete is a handheld blade that can be used as a tool or as a weapon. It’s versatile. It cuts through enemy skulls, watermelons, and dense jungle shrubbery with ease. They are fondly depicted in American cinema and television. There’s even a Machete film franchise.You see them in war scenes, zombie apocalypses, and carried by intrepid explorers. I have a machete. My girlfriend gave it to me for Christmas. That means she trusts me. I haven’t used it yet, but camping season is approaching and I’m sure I’ll find something to chop.

Critically Rated at 12/17

Written, Rated, and Reviewed by Brendan H. Young

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I was going into the subway the other day when I saw a woman approaching the escalator. It wasn’t moving. She saw that it wasn’t working and then she went out of her way to take the stairs instead. I couldn’t help but laugh at her. She recognized that the escalator was broken but opted to take the stairs, completely unaware that broken escalators are stairs. I don’t get it. Broken escalators look exactly like stairs. Yet I could see her entire thought process unfold in front of me: Damn, the escalator is out of commission. Better take the stairs! That’s the only way out of this mess. I know that I’m an asshole because it doesn’t matter what she’s accomplished in her life, she will always be a failure to me.

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The past few days in San Francisco have been rainy and windy, which means there are a lot of broken umbrellas abandoned in garbage cans across the city. I counted five in a two block radius when I walked my dog earlier. That’s a lot of wet angry people that wish they bought a poncho instead.

I hate when my umbrella breaks. I’m usually huddled under it when a gust of wind flips it inside out, breaking one of the spoke hinge things. I don’t know what you call those things, but they are crucial for proper umbrella functioning. You’re fucked once one of them breaks. You can either cling to your broken umbrella or throw it away and get soaked. You’re going to look stupid and be miserable no matter what.

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I was starving at work the other day and brought some buffalo wings into the breakroom to scarf down. I sat down and one of my coworkers had the audacity to take one of my wings without asking me first. She just reached her grubby little hand out and snatched one. Well, that really pissed me off and I let her know it. I grabbed the wing back from her and threw it away. I asked her who the fuck she thought she was. I told her that we weren’t homies. She doesn’t get to eat my food. She doesn’t get to touch my food. I let her know that she would have gotten one if she had simply asked. I said none of this nicely, mind you. I was fucking livid. I walked out of the breakroom and handed out a couple of wings to coworkers that I actually am friends with, knowing that they would take the wings back to the breakroom and she would see them eating the same wings that I had fiercely defended. They can have my wings. Her entitled self is forbidden.

Looking back on it, I know that I overreacted but justice comes at a price. The moral of the story is don’t touch my chicken wing. Don’t assume you can just take one without asking. It’s my food. It’s my property. But if you ask, I’ll be more than happy to let you have one. I might even offer you some ranch to dip it in.

It was a gloomy, rainy afternoon today and I spent it watching Netflix. I was watching Hell on Wheels, a show about building the railroad in the Old West and suddenly there was a gratuitous sex scene. That part was pretty awesome. What wasn’t awesome was that my roommates were both home and sound carries down the hall. My TV was loud and they for sure heard the moans and grunts and cheesy music blasting from the speakers. My door was closed but that made it look even worse. To top it off I had to blow my nose earlier so there’s a couple wads of crumpled tissues clearly visible in my garbage can. It’s like the universe is trying to frame me. I’m not watching porn, I swear. I’m just trying to catch up on my shows. Don’t do me like that.

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Today is the last full day of Barack Obama’s presidency. Tomorrow Donald Trump will be sworn in. It’s a time of great change and even greater uncertainty. I don’t know what the next four years will have in store, but I know the last eight years have been pretty rad. Affordable health care? I’ll take it. Gay marriage legalized? About damn time. Obama is cool. He’s the kind of guy you want to get a beer with. He plays golf with Steph Curry. He gets coffee with Jerry Seinfeld. Trump is the kind of guy you want to pour a beer on. He’s pretentious and proud of it. He grabs pussies and takes golden showers and talks about his own children sexually. And somehow he will be sworn in as our president tomorrow. Nobody seems thrilled about it.

Obama was change. He was progress. He was a president for the people. Trump is a president for rich white men. I’m not rich, I’m not white, and I’m not proud to call him my president. I can’t respect a cartoon character. I don’t vote. I think it’s a hollow privilege. That doesn’t mean I can’t be political. Not voting is how I choose to use my voice. I’ve now seen two candidates win the popular vote yet still lose the presidency via the electoral college. I can’t support a corrupt process like that.

Here is what I’ve learned from the election. Racism is real. Bigotry is back. And the two party system is beyond flawed. I would change it if I could, but I’m too lazy and disillusioned to make an effort.

Obama is leaving. I’ll miss him. Trump is coming. I’ll fear him. We have a Twitter troll in charge of nuclear weapons. God help us all.

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I remember one glorious fall day in second grade when I inadvertently opened up a classroom copy of National Geographic and saw boobs for the first time. There was a topless woman fetching water from a well in a third world country that might no longer exist. I’m sure the photographer was trying to depict her daily struggle. All I saw was boobies. Big, drooping, slightly uneven boobies in all their glory. I showed my friend and the magazine was snatched out of my hand and passed around faster than a blunt at a reggae show. Real boobs! With nipples to boot! Our lives were forever changed, all thanks to National Geographic. It was a soft innocent introduction to pornography at a time when we were too young to make the pages stick together. And yeah, we were too young to know what we were seeing, but it sure was exciting.